As we board, I notice a priest sitting in the near-empty business class section of the plane. God is good, I guess.
Things look pretty much the same from 35,000 feet up. Trees, lakes, colors, people. I could be heading to Chicago. But I’m not. At what altitude do things start to look different? We land, and although I fear it, I don’t experience the ritual of everyone calling somebody and letting them know that they’ve landed: that “we’re still taxi-ing on the runway”. Cell-phone-second-hand-smoke. Makes me sick. Just you wait – they’ll conduct a research study and prove that listening to that same cell phone conversation over and over again causes cancer.
Plane bounces one more time and comes to an eventual halt. I grin, my first time in Malawi, Africa, for that matter, and another stamp in the passport. I say my good-byes to that ever-so-kind flight attendant at the foot of the door and set foot on the big continent.
Devang & Eric are late picking me up but arrive 5 minutes after I make it through customs. I survive the wait and hop into the twin-cab Mitsubishi pick-up truck. I’ve not seen D for a few weeks, funny to be running into him, this time around in Africa…I am meeting E for the first time, but we get along right away. The drive from Lilongwe International Airport (LLW) covers half an hour. The weather is quite reasonable and not too hot. It’s cloudy and the landscape is pretty flat and green. It’s rainy season and there are occasional mountains in sight on the horizon. There are quite a few Malawians ambulating on the open roads, some hawking roasted corn, some on bikes. Most of the locals we pass throw curious glances at the car flying by – what are they thinking?
The countryside of Malawi is a open one. Not many (high-rise) buildings to be seen. The roads are drivable, when paved and not pockmarked by potholes that could swallow a Volkswagen whole. We manage to dodge most craters, and make our way through a few roundabouts, passing various corn fields of differing height on our way to our first lunch in a small business center composed of four or five two-storied buildings lined up near a roundabout. Around here too, many people are moving, walking around, some two to a bike, and all are headed somewhere. I follow E’s lead and order the same chicken-based dish, throwing my planned cautious approach to food consumption and my precious GI tract vigilance out of the window already on day one. The workers who serve us are very friendly. With us they speak English and hop into Chichewa, their native tongue, when speaking with one another.
Then it’s off to the clinic and hospital. E has got to see a number of HIV+ patients in the afternoon. As we pull into the clinic we pass through gates and enter into the parking lot. The area is surrounded by a red brick wall – and the place looks as though it could be anywhere in the Western world.
The manicured lawn at the clinic would afford me a practice round with my chip shots, if I knew how to play golf. We leave my luggage in the car and soon make our way to the hospital – I am going to be shadowing docs D & E as they head into the children’s hospital.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As if walking through a wormhole, passing though the green gate from the clinic (A/C and Internet access provided) into the hospital brings with it stark changes: strong odors of human waste and rubbish pervade, and many clothing articles are lying nearby in the grass, serving as makeshift drying racks.
We head through the first dimly lit, lime green-colored hallway and the smell gets stronger and the consistent buzz and commotion level increase too.
Welcome to Ward A.
This room houses the sickest kids. It is way too full of people and kids, accompanied mostly by their mothers or some other female caregiver or family member. There’s constant motion here too.
It’s hot in here, uncomfortably so. People are sitting, waiting, some with another kid or kids wrapped on their back. The long room is divided into different sections by waist high walls to the left and right. Each section is lined, most of the time, with as many basic beds that can fit into that area. Moms are usually sitting at the foot of the beds, some have tired so much that they are sitting or lying on the concrete floor. Other individuals provide makeshift fans by waving a towel or paper in the general direction of their sick child.
There’s a lot of crying. Usually it’s the kids. I hope it’s from boredom. I fear it’s from pain.
Periodically those sounds are trumped by sobs; a child has died and the parent laments. The people within earshot range do look over, and the unavoidable amount of sound created by the large numbers of inhabitants in the room softens slightly for a fleeting moment, probably instinctually exhibiting a gesture of sorrow and collective condolence.
I can’t imagine what the grieving parent is feeling. What are the rest of the adults in the room thinking?
- Thankful that their small one hasn’t passed?
- Concerned that theirs could be next?
- Hopeful that their kid will become well enough to leave?
- Angry at the world?
- Nothing?
You walk through the ward and note each kid has a nappy health passport lying at the foot of the bed or near the doting mom.
Welcome to Ward A.
This room houses the sickest kids. It is way too full of people and kids, accompanied mostly by their mothers or some other female caregiver or family member. There’s constant motion here too.
It’s hot in here, uncomfortably so. People are sitting, waiting, some with another kid or kids wrapped on their back. The long room is divided into different sections by waist high walls to the left and right. Each section is lined, most of the time, with as many basic beds that can fit into that area. Moms are usually sitting at the foot of the beds, some have tired so much that they are sitting or lying on the concrete floor. Other individuals provide makeshift fans by waving a towel or paper in the general direction of their sick child.
There’s a lot of crying. Usually it’s the kids. I hope it’s from boredom. I fear it’s from pain.
Periodically those sounds are trumped by sobs; a child has died and the parent laments. The people within earshot range do look over, and the unavoidable amount of sound created by the large numbers of inhabitants in the room softens slightly for a fleeting moment, probably instinctually exhibiting a gesture of sorrow and collective condolence.
I can’t imagine what the grieving parent is feeling. What are the rest of the adults in the room thinking?
- Thankful that their small one hasn’t passed?
- Concerned that theirs could be next?
- Hopeful that their kid will become well enough to leave?
- Angry at the world?
- Nothing?
You walk through the ward and note each kid has a nappy health passport lying at the foot of the bed or near the doting mom.
I collect stamps from foreign countries in my passport - it’s not the same thing.
I observe my first lumbar puncture on a skinny little kid – the young child, lying on its side, cries. Tears? I don’t see any. None left?
And it’s at this point in the procedure, it’s mid-afternoon, that things are coming to a head – in my head.
I observe my first lumbar puncture on a skinny little kid – the young child, lying on its side, cries. Tears? I don’t see any. None left?
And it’s at this point in the procedure, it’s mid-afternoon, that things are coming to a head – in my head.
The heat, scenes, smells and everything else gets me just a bit lightheaded, yet I manage to compose myself and stay upright – just.
Off to the wards – B and C.
I notice the pink dress shirt-wearing local translators. This group is critical – they are the line of communication between the doctors E & D and all the other non-Chichewa speaking medical professionals and the family members and parents. Most of the children with AIDS in Malawi have had it passed on from their mothers.
Off to the wards – B and C.
I notice the pink dress shirt-wearing local translators. This group is critical – they are the line of communication between the doctors E & D and all the other non-Chichewa speaking medical professionals and the family members and parents. Most of the children with AIDS in Malawi have had it passed on from their mothers.
11-year olds with heart disease, 9–year olds with cancer, babies with lesions. It goes on and on. Circumstance is a real bitch.
Inevitably, if not yet already known, the proverbial query regarding an AIDS test for the child and parent is posed. ‘Privacy’ amounts to the three of us moving a bench into the middle of the room and creating a makeshift space for the pertinent discussion to take place between the doctors and the patient’s guardian.
A bleak picture, perhaps? But in looking into those inquisitive eyes from the side of the road, from the young girl in ward B, I catch glimpses of hope too:
Inevitably, if not yet already known, the proverbial query regarding an AIDS test for the child and parent is posed. ‘Privacy’ amounts to the three of us moving a bench into the middle of the room and creating a makeshift space for the pertinent discussion to take place between the doctors and the patient’s guardian.
A bleak picture, perhaps? But in looking into those inquisitive eyes from the side of the road, from the young girl in ward B, I catch glimpses of hope too:
the shy kid wandering in the hallway, looking at the blond-haired anomaly, smiles back. The marked change that E & D and so many others are instilling is creating positive motion here too. I can’t help but have hope.
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